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Monday, 23 July 2012

Hitman

On Saturday afternoon Mr Smith takes up
residence in his new home. He sits on a deckchair on his front lawn and smokes
while three men in blue boiler suits carry his possessions from the lorry to
the house. It is warm for September and they sweat dark crescents beneath their
arms.

Expressionless in black glasses he
watches them struggle along the short path with antique furniture of mahogany
and oak. One falters with a crystal vase of surprising weight but maintains his
grip beneath the unchanging gaze of his employer.

“Close
call that, Mr Smith,” says the man, but Mr Smith just draws on his cigarette
and says nothing.

He
wears trousers of carefully pressed white linen and polished brogues. His shirt
is pale blue, the sleeves rolled down and buttoned, a white handkerchief folded
into the top pocket. He is clean shaven and his hair is dark and waxed smooth
and flat.

The last few items leave the lorry.
A violin case. A cage containing an elegant cat of oriental extraction. Two
cacti with purple flowers. Then the men are finished. Mr Smith takes a roll of
notes from his trouser pocket and with a silent nod pays them and retires into
the house.

There
are seventy houses in the village. The bigger properties line the edge of the
green. There is one small pub, the Pony and Trap, which has a bull-mastiff
lazing on the doorstep and an old man in a cricket cap mowing the lawn.
Mosquitoes cloud above a duck pond with dark water and no ducks. A Kawasaki
rides through at over sixty and everyone pauses to shake their heads in
disapproval.

At
four o’clock Mr Stroud lights a barbecue. He wears loafers and is tanned from a
holiday in Tuscany. While the coals begin to whiten in the flames he drinks
champagne. In the kitchen Mrs Stroud makes salad with rocket leaves and
shavings of parmesan and drinks neat vodka.

At five o’clock the
first guests from the village arrive. Soon there are twelve people gathered on
the lawn, enjoying the fading sunlight and the glasses of gin and tonic. Bill
Cornwell tells a golfing anecdote, handing his drink to his wife so that he can
demonstrate the full range of his swing. Mrs Stroud passes round smoked oysters
which no one enjoys. Her silver bracelets jangle as she stumbles between guests
and her overpowering scent of Chanel mingles with the smell of barbecued
swordfish and garlic.

Then the peace is
broken by the scream of sirens as two fire engines pull onto the green. Mr
Stroud knows immediately what has happened. He looks up to the bedroom window
of his neighbour’s house where the pale face of an old woman peers from behind
a net curtain.

“You,” he shouts, and
hurls his champagne glass in rage. “You think this is funny? I light my
barbecue and you call the fire brigade? You exist only to make my life hell.”
Then he lets fly with a stream of obscenities. Twenty minutes later, as the
fire brigade are leaving, the police arrive to caution him for threatening
behaviour.

Next
evening he sits alone at the bar of the pub. He drinks whisky and feeds his
humiliation and rage. The door is open and a cool breeze blows through,
rippling the poster for ‘Quiz Night’ and lifting the corners of the bar towels.
The bull-mastiff sits by the empty fireplace and dribbles while it watches a
young family eat steaks.

Mr Stroud broods over
the injustice of everything. He is an honest, hardworking man. Mrs Kent, the
old woman from next door, the old woman who sabotaged his barbecue, has never
worked a day in her life. And yet she lives comfortably in a five bedroom
house, spending the will from her dead husband, and using her time to interfere
and spy and cause trouble in the village. She opposed the planning proposal for
his indoor swimming pool with built in cocktail bar. She accused him of
watching her through the bathroom window. She had his poodle impounded over
ludicrous allegations of a vicious attack on her person. Fi-fi was still
traumatised by the experience.

“I wish that woman
was dead,” he whispers, then orders another whisky.

Nearby Mr Barnaby
enjoys a pipe with his bitter. He sits at a table with Mr Banks, his
longstanding drinking companion. Both men are in their sixties and wear
flat-caps and sleeveless fishing jackets. For an hour they discuss the results
of the village cricket season and the disappointing performance of the local
team. Amid a cloud of pipe smoke Mr Barnaby states that next year he is
considering an emergence from retirement.

“I wager that even
with the rheumatism and the pacemaker I could build an innings to be proud of,”
he says.

“Pride,” says Mr
Banks. “That’s exactly what’s missing from the game these days.”

Then their
conversation develops a conspiratorial air.

“Have you seen the
new villager?” says Mr Banks, his voice low.

“I have indeed. A
strange fellow. An air of mystique about him, I would say.”

“There’s more than
that.”

“Go on,” says Mr
Barnaby, leaning forward. Mr Stroud, who has heard every word, has to
concentrate hard to pick out the conversation above the snoring of the dog.

“I’ve seen his type
before,” say Mr Banks. “The sunglasses, the meticulously pressed clothes, the
waxed hair. And do you really think that was a violin case? No my friend.
There’s no doubt in my mind. He’s mafia through and through.”

An
hour later Mr Stroud makes the short walk from the pub to his house. He
concentrates hard to maintain his balance. For a moment he pauses to look up at
the stars but the sky is rotating in an unnerving and nauseating fashion and he
comes close to toppling backwards.

He reaches his house
and scolds himself as he fumbles with the keys and takes several attempts to
open the door. His wife is asleep on the sofa with pink curlers in her hair and
smudged lipstick.

He tiptoes past her
to an imitation Monet which hangs above the drinks cabinet. He removes the
painting and with shaking hands summons all his concentration to work the dial
of the safe concealed behind it.

It
is gone midnight when he crouches amongst the rose bushes outside Mr Smith’s
garden window. He has a bundle of notes pressed close to his chest. The thorns
have pierced his trousers in several places and there are lacerations along his
forearms. He is watching and waiting for the right moment.

Inside Mr Smith is
reclining in an armchair. He wears sunglasses despite the soft lamplight and
smokes a cigar. One leg is crossed casually over the other and his elegant cat
is sat upright on his lap. The sound of Beethoven carries out into the night.

Then Mr Stroud can
wait no longer. He stands and raps his knuckles on the window.

“Mr Smith,” he says
in a loud whisper. “I have some work for you. I was hoping you could kill my
neighbour.” And he waves the bundle of notes in the air.

A
week passes. Mr Stroud has been through many emotions in those seven days. The
morning after his nocturnal visit to Mr Smith he was stricken with regret, fear
and a hangover worse than any he could remember. He did not go to work but
spent the day watching Mrs Kent’s house through binoculars, waiting for the
gunshot, or the scream as she was garroted with piano wire. But nothing
happened. He saw her potter in the garden and rake the early autumn leaves. He
watched her through the kitchen window as she baked chocolate cake. He saw the
lights go out as she retired to bed at ten-thirty. Then he broke down in a
tearful confession and told his wife everything, kneeling at her feet, begging
forgiveness, saying that if Mrs Kent lived through the night he would never as
much as fiddle his tax returns again.

To his surprise she seemed distant and
disinterested and said that, although having their irritating neighbour
assassinated seemed a little extreme, it might in the long run be for the best.

Then he began to revel in the idea. He stayed
at home, unwashed and unshaven, muttering to himself, waiting with a twisted
desire to hear of her demise. All ideas of calling off the murder left him. He
woke in the night, convinced he had heard her death rattle carrying to him in
his sleep. He sent a second planning application to the council for his indoor
swimming pool, sure that no one would oppose him. He sent out invitations for a
cocktail party with a live jazz band to be held at his house in a fortnight’s
time.

And still he waited. But he waited for
nothing.

Now he sits by his
wife on the sofa and they watch Celebrity Pop Idol together. The week has
passed and he feels that so has the prospect of an early death for his
neighbour. He is resigned. The loss of five thousand pounds is unfortunate, but
certainly not the worst outcome he had envisaged.

Mrs Stroud nods in
agreement, though she has heard only part of what was said. She is in her
dressing gown, has freshly painted nails and has drunk herself into a stupor
with campari and lemonade.

“Still, he says, “it
would have been nice to see the end of Mrs Kent. We could have had the swimming
pool built and held as many debauched parties as we wanted. Now we’ll have to
wait for her to die naturally.”

Then he is quiet as
he feels the cold metal of a pistol barrel pressed into the back of his head
and smells cigarette smoke and fabric softener.

“You were wrong about
me,” says the smooth voice of Mr Smith. Mrs Stroud narrows her eyes, wondering
if the voice is coming from the television.

“I’m not a killer by
trade,” he says. “But any man can be swayed by money. And I’m not talking five
thousand. I mean big money. The kind of money Mrs Kent can pay.”